


All That Remains

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban, but not its influence on his life. When Hermione Granger reaches out to him, will he finally heal enough to feel young and whole again?





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SomethingWorthFightingFor](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SomethingWorthFightingFor) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so." -Arthur Weasley, Half-Blood Prince (book)

**Cave Near Hogsmeade**

 

He was a _man_ , dammit. _A thirty-three year old man_ , in fact. There was simply no way he should be afraid of the dark.

Nevertheless, his cave refuge terrified him.

Hands shaking, Sirius tried concentrating on the spell once again. “ _Incendio_ ,” he rasped.

Nothing.

Yes, his magic was depleted and needed time to adjust to his newly regained freedom, but this was getting really fucking ridiculous.

Dammit. When the hell was he going to be able to get his hands on a wand that actually worked for him?

Not that he wasn’t appreciative of what Harry had given him, of course; the rosewood just seemed to, well, _despise_ him. In truth, he wasn’t all that surprised—everything and everybody seemed to hate him, with the few notable exceptions of his godson, Hermione Granger, and, fortunately now, Remus.

Perhaps he should have asked the perky little witch to leave behind some of her Bluebell Flames.

“ _Incendio_ ,” he repeated, and a tiny flame sputtered and flickered, finally finding purchase in the kindling on the damp floor in front of him.

The fledgling fire grew, sending shadows dancing on the stone walls and careening into the darkness beyond its reach. Each shadow lived: his eyes invented the edges of ripped black canvas trailing down from clawed fingers; his skin believed every new whisper of air was suddenly icy. 

Even the intermittent rustle of Buckbeak’s wings—from the black beyond the firelight’s reach—made things worse.

Trembling, Sirius got up and walked outside.

He took a deep breath. He felt impossibly old at thirty-three.

He was free—well, he was no longer in Azkaban, at least.

But he would never truly be free of the memories of his years there.

* * *

**Azkaban, Two Months Prior**

 

_Smell it! Hungry! Where? There! There!_

Elated, he bounded up from his curled position under the rickety cot to the corner of his cell, and sniffed the bug as it skittered across the floor.

 _Eat!_ _Good._

As the insect crunched between his back teeth, he closed his eyes and dreamed of more.

Opening his eyes, he surveyed the tiny space and, finding nothing more to entice him, returned to the shelter under the bed before the floor became too cold, circling the spot twice before settling down in a semicircle. He pointed his snout toward the door.

_Lay._

He could see just past the bars that were set in the door, and into the semi-dark hall. Across stood nothing but cement wall—nothing to see, nothing to entertain. Just grey.

He licked his chops, dreaming of a bowl of water to wash down the insect. The mange and the fleas were no longer even cause for notice, but thirst still gnawed at him. Incessantly.

Periodically—when he was in this form—he could smell the others that shared the walls of his prison. He could discern the difference in their scents, even though they were saturated with the same odor that permeated the air: fear.  

_Stop. Danger._

He sniffed and found that the fear in the others was escalating.

He could feel the icy chill invading his fur.

It was coming.

His hackles rose of their own accord; his lips curled into a silent growl. He knew better than to make a noise.

He froze, and waited.

A dark creature appeared and paused at the bars, gazing into his cell—if it could be said that the eyeless creatures gazed—and, apparently satisfied, continued on its way. They never stayed long when he was in this form. It was as if he bored them.

_Safe now._

The relative warmth of Azkaban returned to the stale air in his chamber. He clambered out from under the cot and sat on the bed, morphing back into human form.

Sirius scrubbed his hand down his face and sighed. Lately, the energy required to remain his other form for long was simply too much for him.

Dementors always visited at roughly the same time every day, and for that tiny gift, he was thankful. He supposed that if they appeared at random times, the unpredictability would drive men mad even faster than what was usual for this hellhole. The constant fear of one of them suddenly appearing at the door would be unbearable, something his brain could hardly conceive of.

Now that the Dementors had disappeared down the grey hall, he abruptly realized that today was not a day that they would push food through the bars on the door. 

His stomach rumbled. The cockroach had reminded his belly that it was all the nourishment that he would receive this day. He looked down at his hands; he hardly recognized them anymore.

Hunger had stripped him to bones.

Idly, he wondered what his face looked like.   

_Fuck, if I were any thinner, I would be able to squeeze through those damn bars, and get the hell out of here and kill Wormtail myself._

_Well,_ he thought wryly, _there’s an idea._

Pulling on his cloak of black fur, he sniffed the air to see if anyone was nearby. The creatures were gone. He tentatively pushed his snout through the bars. Next, he tried his head; it was a tight fit, but passable. He padded slowly forward until his ribs hit metal on either side. By wiggling left and right, he eventually made it all the way into the corridor.

_Out!_

He squeezed back into his cell.

Tomorrow, after the Dementors fed him—and they _would_ feed him tomorrow because they hadn’t today or the day before—he would slip out between the bars of his cell, dive into the icy water of the North Sea, and swim as hard as he was able, away from the prison he that had called home for the last twelve years.

_Tomorrow. After I eat some food._

He collapsed onto his cot, alone with the pain of his new tattoo, and the screams of those that had succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

**Cave Near Hogsmeade**

 

The moon outside the cave was just past full and partially obscured with thin, stringy clouds making the moonlight feel sickly and weak. Sirius hoped he would not have to produce a Patronus.

_Remus, my friend, I wish you were here._

He sat down on a rock and winced. It had been months, but his ribs hadn’t fully recovered from squeezing between the bars. Perhaps they hadn’t simply been bruised—maybe he’d broken a few during his escape. That would certainly explain the pain that lingered in his chest. He huffed a laugh at the thought of the eldest son of Orion Black and heir to the Black family name, not only so thin that he could fit through the bars of a prison, but sickly enough to break his ribs doing so.

Would they ever heal? Perhaps Hermione could help him with that. She did seem rather clever.

The clouds moved to entirely obscure the moon.

He’d been disintegrating in Azkaban for twelve fucking _years_ while the world had gone on without him—while Voldemort regained power nearly without notice, while his godson was abused by Muggles, and while he was vilified as a mass murder.

And, despite all his efforts, Wormtail was still alive.

Damn, things had gone down the shitter completely.

He huffed another laugh: his ribs weren’t the only thing about him that was broken beyond repair.

_Gods, if James were here… I wonder where—_

Returning to the cave and checking that the ties on Buckbeak were secure, he drew on his depleted-but-growing reserve of magic, and with his barely-cooperating wand, he twisted away.

* * *

Sirius teetered dangerously as the effects of the Apparition dissipated. Godric’s Hollow sat before him, imposing and cloaked in darkness.

They had to be here. They wouldn’t have buried them anywhere else but here.

He trotted to toward the village center, uncaring that someone might notice him. It was then that he saw an obelisk in the square. As he got closer, the statue transformed from a plaque into the likeness of James, Lily, and Harry.

Gods, a _monument_? A panicked, hysterical laugh escaped him. He didn’t exactly know how to feel about it, other than he didn’t like the Ministry’s fingers on anything dear to him, even those long dead. What would James and Lily have thought of this marble monstrosity, presenting them as completely peaceful and calm, belying both the last months, and the final moments, of their lives?

He allowed his humanity melt warmly away, the fur replacing skin, the bruisingly cold earth biting at his paws.  

_Friends._

_Sorrow._

An uncontrollable whine reverberated deep in his throat. He tried to stifle the sound, but a howl took its place.

 _Run_.

Giving into the need for flight, he bounded away from the monument and the village center, and rounded the corner to First Street. Suddenly, there it was.

He clothed himself in skin again.

Gods, they had left the house untouched. Sadistic bastards.

Suddenly, the echoes of _that night_ were upon him: the smell of the charred building; the murmurs of the stunned villagers; the curtains blowing outward from surprisingly dark windows; the visceral, haunting wail of the elderly witch who had lived next door.

Calling up every whit of courage in his being, he took another step towards the destroyed home that had once belonged to his best friends.

Rage, spurred by loss, engulfed him.

_Gods, why…?_

There was no answer. There had never been one.

He didn’t remember turning away, or calling on his canine form, but suddenly, he found himself in the graveyard, draped in fur.

He wandered through the headstones until he found the right one. Padding into tighter and tighter circles, he finally settled down, curling up on Lily’s grave and laying his snout on his hind legs.

Padfoot knew all about cold, dark prisons. Maybe he could make hers a little warmer and brighter this night.

* * *

The feeble light of near-dawn was murmuring through the wood when Sirius returned from Godric’s Hollow. As he turned from his Apparition spot, he glanced around to discover he wasn’t alone.

“I brought you something.” Remus held out at bottle of Firewhisky. “Thought you could use a taste.”

“Thanks.”

Sirius walked over and sat down on a boulder; Remus produced a second glass and held it out for him to take.

“Where were you?”

“I went to Godric’s Hollow.”

“Ah,” Remus said. “Dangerous. Stupid. Reckless.” He raised an eyebrow. “Perfect.”

Sirius pursed his lips in annoyance. “I’m trapped here. I can’t get to Wormtail while I’m stuck in this fucking cave.” He picked up a stone and flung it into the darkness.

“You’ll never get a chance at all if they send you back.”

Sirius paused for a moment. “I had to see them.”

“I get that.”

Silence. The night settled in, still and quiet between them.

“I can barely use this damn wand. To tell you the truth, I’m barely myself anymore. I feel…well, broken.”

“I imagine twelve years in Azkaban can do that to someone.”

Sirius eyed his old friend, taking in his threadbare blazer and ancient, scuffed loafers. “It doesn’t look like it’s been easy for you, either.”

“I’d never complain, especially to you.” Remus took a swallow of Firewhisky. “Dumbledore handed me the Defense job.”

“I bet you’re good at it.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond.

“I feel so damn old, Moony.” Sirius dragged his hand down his face. “And alone.”

Remus huffed a laugh in agreement. “Yeah.”

“Let me tell you something that Arthur Weasley once said to me,” Remus continued. He set his glass on the ground in front of him. “He said, ‘Young and whole men do not necessarily remain so.’”

Sirius huffed his own laugh, and pointed his face upward at the grieving sky. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt young.”

“It’s something that happens to the best of us, I’m afraid.” Remus said with a sad smile. “You just need something—or maybe someone—to help you feel young again.”

* * *

As the months passed, Sirius became more accustomed to the darkness of the cave. Nourished by the food Remus managed to smuggle to him from the Hogwarts kitchens, he regained his strength. Buoyed by letters from his godson and Hermione, he regained his perspective.

More so than Harry’s, her letters kept him sane. They made him feel connected and, dare he think it… _hopeful_. More hopeful, actually, than anything had in a very, long time.

Sirius settled down by the fire and unfolded the first owl-post he’d received from her. He liked to reread all of them in order from first to last, while imagining her furrowed brow and ink-stained hands as she bit the end of her quill and contemplated what to write. He’d committed them all to memory, but there was something different about feeling the weight of the parchment in his hand, rather than just reciting the words in his head.  

 

_Snuffles:_

_It was a pleasure to meet you._

_I trust that it will be okay for me to contact you for advice about our mutual friend._

_If so, please send a note back with this owl._

_Please give my regards to B._

_Sincerely,_

_H.G._

_p.s., I have included some parchment and ink for you._

 

Hermione’s letters had evolved. In the beginning, they had centered on Voldemort’s influence on Harry’s state of mind. As the weeks in hiding became months, their conversations about the pending war had given way to intellectual debate on topics as diverse as Transfiguration and the political state of the Ministry. Ultimately, Sirius had begun to share his every thought with her, and she, with him; their conversations via owl-post had blossomed into teasing, playful banter.

And lately, her posts—which now arrived daily—almost sounded _flirtatious_. She’d even begun signing them  _Your Perky Little Witch._

Well, as far as he was concerned, she _was_ his perky little witch.

Although it couldn’t be, right?  Who would want this broken old man? He _had_ to be reading too much into them.

He had to be. And yet…

Sirius unfurled the parchment that arrived this morning.

 

_Dearest Snuffles,_

_I agree! I don’t know why they have to be so stubborn! I’m glad someone understands. I knew you would._

_By the way, I have to admit I’m not much into Quiddich, I’m afraid. The World Cup was something to see, but quite frankly, I don’t enjoy the games at Hogwarts at all. Promise not to tell Harry? It can be our little secret. (Well, at this point, just one of our secrets, right?)_

_I just finished an amazing book on Ancient Runes. I wanted to share it with you, so I’ve sent it with the owl, along with a few Prophets and a photo of Harry and me. (Harry has a bit of a fan here at school by the name of Colin. Anyway, I thought you might enjoy the picture.)_

_I’ve done a bit more research on the runes on pages 18 and 29…I wonder if you can guess the origin of both of them. It’s quite intriguing, actually. And, might I say, rather suggestive (hint, hint)!_

_Oh, I’ve enclosed a mince pie as well. (I know it’s your favourite.) I hope it gets to you in one piece._

_Wish I could visit you and we could talk face to face. Maybe soon._

_Thinking of you,_

_YPLW_

 

Sirius stared at the photo again, turning it in his hands in the fading remains of daylight. Hermione was smiling and laughing, as she playfully bumped into Harry’s shoulder with her own, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

 _Gods_ , he thought, _she’s so damn pretty. Maybe…? Oh, hell. I really have lost my mind._  

* * *

**Number 12, Grimmauld Place**

 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Sirius said, smiling.

His eyes followed Hermione as she got up from the kitchen table, brought her plate to the sink, and walked to the hall, unruly curls bouncing wildly around her. He sighed happily. His after-dinner conversations with Hermione—now in person rather than over owl—were a high point in his new life. They had made his prison, otherwise known as the Black family home, a bit more palatable. He felt a smile threaten the side of his mouth.

Sirius rose from the table to take his own plate to the counter, and noticed Snape had entered the kitchen and was watching him pointedly. His brow was furrowed and his lips were curled in distaste. Snape stalked toward him, stopping a breath from his face.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled. “You corrupt everything you touch, Black.”

Sirius sniffed a response, turned his back on Snape, and took a long swallow of his Firewhisky.   

“I don’t necessarily disagree,” he said languidly, swirling his glass before taking another sip. “But don’t you think her pretty little brown eyes could use a touch of darkness?”

“Black—“

“Why the fuck do you care? It’s not like she’d ever give you a second glance.” He smiled slyly, swiveling back toward the other man. Merlin, he was so easy to tease. “I bet she loves to—“ 

“Leave her the fuck alone, Black, or I swear—“

“Or what, exactly? You don’t get to come here and threaten me, Snivellus. I don’t give a fuck what you do for the Order. My life is my business. And she’s of age.”

“Not until September,” he said threateningly.

Sirius waved him away with a smirk. “Whatever.”

Snape stalked out of the kitchen without another word.

A moment later, Remus strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Ah, Snape. He means well.”

“Not everyone means well, Moony,” Sirius said, finding his mood had soured since Hermione left the kitchen.

“Fair enough.”

“Dammit, I just want what everyone else wants!”

“And what is that, Padfoot?”

“I don’t know. A chance? Maybe a chance to have a normal life with someone? A chance to fight? Fuck, I don’t know.”

Remus pulled out a chair to sit at the table.

“I remember taking Marlene McKinnon to the Shrieking Shack—”

“Padfoot, you took girls to the Shack?” Remus said, his eyes widening a fraction.

“Just her.” Sirius let himself smile at the memory. “Merlin, she had a nice ass.”

“I’ll give you that,” Remus said, chuckling. He nodded in the direction of the library. “You like her.”

“I happen to, yeah.” Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“No reason.” Remus met his eye. “Molly will not be pleased.”

“Fuck Molly. She’s not in charge. She thinks she is, but she’s not.”

Remus raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

“Hermione’s smart and strong and unafraid. I like that.”

“I know. She sounds like you.” Remus gave him a small smile.

Sirius looked away. “I don’t know about that. I still have nightmares. _Still_.”

“Give yourself time. And take it slow with her, would you?”

“Slow?” Sirius turned to Remus and felt his lips curl into a smirk. “ _Time_ , Moony, is one thing that we don’t have in abundance.”

* * *

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Sirius sat down next to Hermione on one of the ancient couches in the library—his mother’s favorite, the one she never let him sit on as a child. He moved closer, setting his thigh up against hers and peering at the book in her lap. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing you would find interesting,” Hermione said, closing the book gently. Her brown eyes sparkled.

“You’d be surprised what I find interesting.”

A flush graced her face at that.

_Well, fuck it, here I go._

“I wanted to ask you something. I thought, well, I thought maybe you could come see me. I mean—” He swallowed, finding his throat was dry. As close as they’d become, this was harder than he imagined it would be. “It’s been great having you here all summer. But it’s almost September and you’ll have to go back to school. What I’m trying to say is, once Hogwarts starts, maybe on the weekends, would you come visit me? Unless there’s an Order meeting going on, it would be just you…and me.”

Merlin, he’d royally mucked that up. Had he forgotten how to talk to a woman?

There was a pause. A terrifying pause.

Then: “I’d like that.”

He let the relief wash through him for a moment before he spoke.

“Maybe, I don’t know, when you come, you could teach me how to cast those pretty blue flames of yours.”

“The Bluebell Flames? Sure.” Hermione slid her hand into his, looked him in the eye, and gifted him a wry smile. “I promise not to burn you if we start playing with fire, Sirius.”

_Oh._

_Damn._

Sirius drew the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’m not afraid of a little fire,” he whispered.

Her face flushed wildly in the lamplight as she held his stare. “I’m not either.”

* * *

“Watch your step…I’ve got you…”

“It’s so dark in here.” Hermione grasped his hand tightly, pulling herself in closer to him. She smelled like jasmine and vanilla—and it was making his stomach flip like he was a teenager.

“The darkness is part of me, love. My name is Black, isn’t it?” Sirius teased. “But if you like…” He pulled his wand out from a pocket in his denims. “ _Lumos_.”

“Better.”

“Let me…” He turned his wand on the rickety bed. “ _Scourgify_.” He winked. “You know, just to be sure.”

She giggled.

They both sat down on the bed at the same time.

“An odd thing to want to come to a dark, dusty room to celebrate your birthday,” he teased.

“You did just _Scourgify_ it,” she said. “So it’s no longer dusty. Now, it’s just dark.”

“True.”

“And you did just say that darkness was part of you…” She leaned so closely toward him, he could feel her breath, warm on his lips. “So, maybe we could celebrate in the dark.”

He crossed the tiny gap between them, pressing his lips into hers, tangling his hand in her riotous curls to tenderly angle her head to the side. Gently, he slid his tongue into her mouth, parting it more fully, inviting her to respond in kind. She met his need by expressing her own: her tongue dancing, turning, probing, and slipping against his urgently.

_Deeper…more…_

Merlin, he was hungry. He was so… _hungry_ for her.

“Hermione…” he panted, breaking the kiss to catch his breath. He set his wand down on the side table, freeing up his other hand. “Before we—“

“If you’re about to remind me of our respective ages, I will hex you, Sirius Black.”

He huffed a laugh. That was his perky little witch.

“Listen to me, Hermione. I’m not necessarily young— _or whole_ ,” he said, thinking back to his conversation with Remus. “In fact, I’m broken. Very broken. The things I’ve done…the things I’ve witnessed…I…I—” He stopped, unable to continue; instead, he reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear.

She closed her brown eyes momentarily. When she opened them once more, she reached up to brush her fingertips down the side of his face.

“I know all this. But you’re not that man anymore, Sirius. I can see it in your eyes. They’re not haunted—or even angry anymore. Sometimes, I see sadness there. That’s all.”

“Grief came later than the anger. Much later,” he admitted.

“You still miss them.”

“I do.” He smiled sadly. “All I know is that a part of me died when they did. What’s left is damaged and defective, but I can promise that all that remains is yours.”

“It’s enough,” she whispered, pulling him down next to her. She wrapped herself so tightly around him that he felt as if all his disparate pieces might merge together, and fuse into a semblance of the man he once was.

* * *

Snape burst through the door at Number Twelve, Grimmauld without a knock and strode into the kitchen. Sirius looked up from the Prophet. “Snivellus, what the f—?”

“Ronald Weasley, Potter, Miss Granger, and three other students were caught trying to leave Hogwarts in an attempt to rescue you from the Ministry,” Snape said, cutting across him and beginning to pace across the wood floor. “I assume they will attempt to escape Umbridge and continue to the Ministry as they originally planned. I came to confirm you were indeed here, and not at the Ministry, and therefore, have no need of rescuing.”

Sirius stood up and claimed his wand from the counter near the sink. “Why—”

“I believe the Dark Lord planted a thought—or perhaps a vision—in Potter’s thick head in order to convince him that you had been attacked at the Ministry. He needs Potter there in order to retrieve the prophecy, of course.”

“Why would Harry belie—? KREACHER!”

The house elf arrived in the kitchen with a soft POP. “Yes, Master? Kreacher lives to serve the noble House of Black.” It bowed, bending at the waist until its ears brushed the wooden floor.

“Did anyone contact you by Floo to ask if I was here?” Sirius asked impatiently.

“Kreacher was instructed to say that Master Black was not home.”

“Who instructed you to say that?”

“Kreacher lives to serve the noble House of Black.”

Sirius growled in frustration. “They’re walking into a trap.” His chest tightened as panic threatened to claw its way out of his chest. “Dammit!”

He sheathed his wand and yanked his coat onto his shoulders. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Snape cast a Patronus to contact the rest of the Order.

“Black, the rest of the Order will handle it! You must stay here!” Snape yelled, grabbing onto his coat.

“The hell I will! Hermione is there!” He ripped his shoulder out of the other man’s grasp, and spun away.

* * *

_Where is she? Gods, where…?_

Sirius tried discerning anything at all through the hexes careening around him. The grey room was a frenzy of screams and flashes of colour; Death Eaters and Order members paired off, circling each other as if they were dancing to some odd, macabre tune.

He couldn’t decide if the piercing shriek coming from Bella’s lips was a scream or a laugh.  

He knew one thing for certain: the stone arch on the dais in the center of the room whispered in the voices of the dead.

Sirius glanced around again. He still couldn’t see Hermione.

_Maybe she isn’t here because she didn’t come. But maybe she isn’t here because she’s already dead…_

He quelled that last thought with a violent thrust of sheer determination.

An unidentifiable blue curse soared past his right ear. His long-rusty solider instincts surfaced, unbidden, and he responded in kind.

“Nice one, James!” he yelled as the Order member at his side— _wait, was that Harry?_ —fired off a respectable hex toward another, unsuspecting Death Eater.

Sirius glanced up. Neville Longbottom was forcing his way in through one of the identical doors in the upper level of the room, and there in his arms, Hermione lay, bloody and unconscious.

He caught the boy’s eye. Neville shook his head.

_No. NO!_

All that remained of him shattered into pieces.

He felt his godson’s gaze. “Sirius?”

Somehow, he stayed upright long enough to watch a curse rip through the air, missing his head by inches. His knees buckled. Losing his balance, Sirius fell backward through the stone archway, away from the broken body of the woman he had grown to love, the woman who had made him feel young and whole again.

And into the arms of the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> All things Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling, not me.


End file.
